Prima Donna at Large (13 page)

They looked first shocked and then crestfallen. “I, I'm sorry,” one of them stammered, shamefaced. “We didn't know.”

Well, of course they didn't know; their instructions had been hurried and vague. “Ah, it's not your fault,” I grumbled. “
You
aren't the ones I should be yelling at.” I extricated myself from the tangle of arms and legs I was caught in and stood up. “
Gatti!
” I screamed.

He was right there, behind me, too thunderstruck even to move. We were surrounded by screaming people—singers, backstage crew, maids and valets—all of them anxious to tell the firing squad what they now already knew. The firing squad decided to yell at Gatti for sending them out on the stage so poorly prepared; I helped them. The noise level kept rising and rising.

Finally Gatti grabbed me and screamed into my ear, “The curtain call! You will miss the curtain call!”

“Are you crazy?” I screamed back. “Go out in front of that hysterical audience after a fiasco like this? Never!”

“But they will think …”

“And they'll be right! I'm no fool! I'm
not
taking a curtain call tonight!” I pulled away from him and tried to work my way through the crowd. The tenor, as far as I could tell, had managed to disappear; smart man.

Scotti came up to me laughing so hard the tears were running down his face. “Let me examine you! What, no bullet holes? Remarkable! But still, the first
Tosca
in history in which the
soprano
is executed—although I can think of a few productions that would improve with such an alteration.”

“Do you mean me?” I shrieked.

“Of course not,
cara
Gerry! I mean all those
other
Toscas, the ones who only wish they could sing like you! But what an ending! A firing squad that heroically leaps to its own death! In remorse over shooting so charming a lady, no doubt.”

“It's not funny, Toto!”

“The curtain call!” Gatti shouted desperately. “The curtain call … somebody … Scotti?”

Scotti gestured apologetically. Traditionally the baritone does not take a curtain call at the end of
Tosca
, since his part ends in Act II; Scotti had already changed into his street clothes. With my refusing to go out and the tenor turned suddenly invisible, not one of the opera's three lead singers was available for the curtain call.

So who did take the curtain call? Why, the firing squad, of course. The audience rose to its feet and cheered.

Emmy Destinn came backstage, wearing an expression that said I-saw-it-but-I-don't-believe-it. The last thing in the world I wanted to hear was some undisguised crowing from Emmy Destinn, so I pushed my way over to her and screamed, “Emmy, if you say one word—
one word!
—I shall pull your hair right out of your head! Every strand of it!”

She pressed her lips together and tried to look sympathetic.

Jimmy Freeman, also changed into street clothes, was wearing a face that could have been a model for a tragic mask. “What a terrible thing!” he cried. “Oh, Gerry, I'm so sorry!”

At last, a friendly shoulder to cry on. The trouble was, I didn't feel like crying.
Killing
, maybe, but not crying.

“And wouldn't you know,” Jimmy went on, “old Duchon is over there talking to the chairman of the board. Capitalizing on the mistake.”

“Over where?”

“There.” He gestured with his head. I made my way over to where Philippe Duchon was standing with Otto Kahn, chairman of the Metropolitan board of directors.

“In an efficiently run house,” Duchon was saying, “such amateurishness would not be tolerated.
All
details must be seen to, including adequate coaching of the supernumeraries.”

The Frenchman was doing his best to undermine Gatti-Casazza; I wondered how far he'd go to usurp Gatti's place. If it ever came down to a choice between Gatti and Duchon, there wasn't the slightest doubt as to which was preferable. “Oh, hello, Mr. Kahn,” I said gaily to the chairman. “How did you like our little comedy?”

He shook his head. “Unfortunate. But these things are bound to happen once in a while, I suppose.”

So he hadn't been taken in by Duchon's self-promoting spiel. Good. “Yes, it was unfortunate—but it
was
funny, you have to admit.” I laughed lightly.
Ha ha, oh yes, very funny, ha ha
. “Come now, Mr. Kahn, you did laugh, didn't you?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I must confess I did indulge in a chuckle or two.”

Better and better. “That was a stroke of genius on Gatti's part, wasn't it? Sending the firing squad out to take the curtain call, I mean. There's no way to pretend what happened did
not
happen—so, we might as well make the most of it!”

“Yes, that was a clever move,” Mr. Kahn agreed. “Send the audience home in a good mood—it never hurts. But, dear Miss Farrar, you did not get to take your own well-earned curtain call.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “I'll take twice as many next time.” I gave him my most brilliant smile, and he smiled back automatically.

Through all this Duchon had stood like a statue, working hard at keeping his face impassive. I chatted with Mr. Kahn another minute or two and then went looking for Scotti. I found him with Emmy Destinn, both of them doubled over with laughter. The minute they saw me they straightened up and put on sober expressions.

“Oh, stop that,” I said crossly, “I know you both think it's a big joke. Toto, I want to get out of here. Now.”

“Certainly,
bellissima
,” he purred. “As soon as you change, we—”

“I'm not going to change. I want to get out of here
right now
.” Very unprofessional, leaving the opera house in full costume and make-up; I'd never done it before. But tonight was an unusual night.

Outside the stage door Mildredandphoebe were waiting with a million questions, but I hurried by without answering; I'd never done
that
before either. It was snowing—wet and clingy snow, the worst kind of stuff to fall out of the sky on you on a bad night.

In the back seat of the limousine Scotti did his best to reassure me. “Gerry, that firing squad—it does not make
you
look bad. You are wonderful. You always are, but tonight even more wonderful than usual. I am wonderful too! Do not be sad, Gerry.
I
am not sad!”

I sighed. “But we had such a good one going, Toto.”

“Yes, we have a good one tonight. And next time will be good too. Smile,
gioia mia
. Tell me what I can do to make you feel better.”

I told him.

7

A few days later I was in the music room, deep in the daily drudgery of scales, when my maid Bella came in and told me a Mr. “Dew-shone” was there to see me. I told her to show him in to the music room.

Then Duchon was standing stiffly just inside the door, as if unsure of his welcome—as well he might be! He carried a long florist's box. “Even singing scales,” he said softly, “you make beautiful music, Gerry.”

“What a charming way to start a conversation,” I said. “Do come in, Philippe, don't stand there in the doorway. What do you have there?”

He ceremoniously handed me the florist's box. “Two dozen orchids, I believe you said,” he smiled wryly.

I'd also said
on his knees
, but I pretended to forget that part of it. “You've been talking to Morris, then.”

“Mr. Gest explained I may have been precipitate in my suggestions. It seems I am always apologizing to you, Gerry. It is not my intention to keep offending you—I don't know what happens.”

What happens is your personality keeps getting in the way
, I thought. I turned my attention to the florist's box. The lid said Wadley & Smythe, Fifth Avenue—he'd not stinted on the expense. The orchids were lovely, that delicate rose variety with yellow throats; I wished I'd said three dozen. I told Bella to bring some shallow bowls filled with water.

Plunge right in. “Did you really think I'd let you pick out my program numbers for me?” I asked Duchon.

A Gallic shrug. “I was mistaken to presume. Your Mr. Gest says you now refuse to sing in concert with me at all. Gerry, I beg you—please reconsider. Your presence would mean so much to the Alsatian war relief. France needs you, Gerry.”

Oh, my. “You should have thought of that when you were making out my program for me.”

“
Ma chère
, do not let my personal clumsiness dissuade you. We need money, much money. The only way I can help is by giving benefit concerts. And possibly by persuading you—” He broke off abruptly, his eyes staring at something across the room.

I followed his glance. He was looking at a framed photograph I kept on the piano, a picture of the Crown Prince. Handsome Willi, son of Kaiser Wilhelm—my friend, Duchon's enemy.

He picked up smoothly where he'd left off. “And possibly by persuading you to sing with me. You could help so much, if you would.”

Bella came in with the shallow bowls, making two trips. I busied myself floating the orchids on the water while Duchon walked about the room. “What a charming place you have, Gerry! Both comfortable and elegant. And so much room!” He swung out both arms expansively—and “accidentally” knocked Willi's picture off the piano to the floor, where the glass splintered into a dozen pieces.

I made no fuss, simply told Bella to clean it up. When she'd left the room, I interrupted Duchon's apologies and told him to sit down.

I sat in a chair facing him. “Philippe, you come here to ask me to do a special favor for you. And then you do something like that, breaking Willi's picture, that you know will offend me. Is this your subtle way of telling me you don't really want me to sing with you?”

He looked horrified. “No, no—never think that! I
do
want you to sing with me! More than anything!”

“Then why do you
do
things like that? Ever since we met, you've been complimenting me in one breath and insulting me in the next. You're no stumbling schoolboy,” I said, thinking of Jimmy Freeman. “You must know what you're doing. So what is it you hope to accomplish by acting in this outlandish way?”

He didn't say anything. But his face grew pinched, his eyes squeezed together, and to my dismay I realized the man was crying. I fidgeted a bit, not really knowing what to do; finally I handed him a glass of wine, which he took one sip of and then handed back.

When he could talk again, he said, “You are mistaken when you say I must know what I'm doing. I do not. I come to this strange land so full of noise and color and money, and I … I do not always know what is best to do. I am not a young man, Gerry. So many changes—so many
violent
changes, and so quickly. I lose my opera house, I am in danger of losing my country, and now I think I may be losing my, eh, eh.”

Voice. He was afraid of losing his voice.

Oh, that explained so many things! The alternating moods, the arrogance, the quickness to attribute accidents to the malevolence of others. The eagerness to find an opera company he could manage. It even explained his wanting to learn a new role at this late stage of his career. Singing Scarpia in
Tosca
would be a way of denying any loss of vocal power—a way of denying death, in fact.

But I thought he was mistaken about losing his voice, and said so. “Your voice is strong and true, Philippe, and it has a resonance and timbre that neophyte singers would give ten years of their lives for. What makes you think you're losing it?”

“A tightness, a closing up without warning. Several times in rehearsal, and even when I practice those same scales you were doing so effortlessly a few minutes ago—suddenly the voice is just not there. Nothing comes out. It hasn't happened in performance yet, but it's only a matter of time.”

“Have you consulted a physician?”

“Yes, Gatti-Casazza recommended a Dr., ah …?”

“Curtis?”

“Dr. Curtis, yes. He says there is nothing to worry about. I must admit Caruso's throat spray does help, if only for brief periods of time. Do you know what's in it?”

“It's basically Dobell's Solution with several other things added,” I said, “salt water and the like. Caruso's always changing the formula. Philippe, this tightening up in your throat—do you think it might have an emotional cause instead of a physical one? You've obviously had a lot to distress you lately.”

He smiled sadly. “That is what Dr. Curtis suggested. He says it is all in my mind and not in my throat. Perhaps what is needed is not a throat spray but a spray for the head.”

As jokes go, it was a pretty feeble one; but it told me Duchon was making an effort, trying to regain control over a life that had suddenly gone haywire on him. On impulse, I leaned over and patted his hand. “I'll sing your fund-raising concert with you, Philippe. We can talk about a tour later. And don't worry about losing your voice—you'll outlast us all.”

A while later he left, each of us reassured a little about the other. I felt more comfortable with him now than at any time since we'd first met. When a singer is under such stress that his voice is affected, obviously his behavior is going to be erratic. If it were happening to me, I'd be running around and screaming and breaking things. Or maybe even jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge.

The evening had started off badly. I'd insulted one of society's
grandes dames
in a strong, clear voice that carried all the way across the room—and I'd done so because
she
had insulted
me
. The most annoying thing about the entire interchange was that the stupid cow wasn't even aware she
had
insulted me.

We were at a dinner party at the Vanderbilt mansion on Fifth Avenue. I was wearing a white taffeta evening frock trimmed with lace and rosebuds, and I was the only woman there whose arms were not bare. The upper part of my left arm still sported a bruise, the result of my unforeseen collision with a foot belonging to somebody in that disastrous
Tosca
firing squad. Toscanini was my escort for the evening, and the only other person there from the Met was Caruso. I'd barely gotten my wraps off when this cow started pestering me to sing. I said no politely several times, even pointing out once that I'd come to be entertained, not to do the entertaining myself.